Murderers
by Everything In Its Right Place
Summary: They are all murderers. Hundreds have died by their hands. How do Hawke and her companions cope with it?


Original Prompt:

_Varric: Oh, cheer up, Blondie. You're making me cry just looking at you.__  
><em>_Anders: Don't.__  
><em>_Varric: You made a mistake. It happens.__  
><em>_Anders: I almost killed a girl.__  
><em>_Varric: You've killed two-hundred and fifty-four by my last count. Plus about five hundred men, a few dozen giant spiders, and at least two demons.__  
><em>_Anders: It's not the same.__  
><em>_Varric: Why? Because this one you feel bad about? Maybe that's the problem._

Hawke and Company kill _a lot_ of people over the course of the game. How do they feel about this? Regrets? Justifications?

As soon as I read this prompt, I thought of Zevran's response when you ask him if he's a murderer. It was something along the lines of: _I think everyone here can claim that title_. I started writing right away. I hope you all enjoy it.

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><p><strong>Anders<strong>

It wasn't something he enjoyed doing, exactly. He wanted to help people. That was why he furiously studied creation magic during his limited time at the Circle. It was why he ran his Darktown clinic despite the danger it put him in. But it had to be done. The freedom of all mages was worth the lives of those who were foolish and cruel enough to stand in his way. They _deserved_ the fate they got, and the part of him that was Justice felt something akin to satisfaction. This bothered him much more than the blood on his hands.

**Varric**

He tried not to think about it afterward, about the philosophical and moral implications at least. The act itself, however, was at the forefront of his mind. Metaphors and similes painted his memories in vivid colors. Hyperbole doubled the number and size of his foes. He gave them fictional families to grieve their fantastical deaths, and they transformed from men into minor characters. Minor characters died all the time, and no one really cared. All that mattered were the adventures of the main cast.

**Aveline**

It was part of being a soldier, something she had come to terms with long ago. Sometimes things could be resolved peacefully, and sometimes they could not, but it was her job to ensure that resolution happened. Criminals chose their ends when they committed their foul deeds. If they refused to allow her to be jailer, then she would become executioner. It brought her to silent tears once in a great while, alone in the bath, but the law was the law, and she would uphold it.

**Merrill**

In the great cycle of nature, all things that are born must die. Death was a transition to new life as a bird or a butterfly or a flower. When she was feeling weighted by thoughts of those that had been felled by her hand, she closed her eyes and imagined a vast meadow at early morning filled with all different kinds of wildflowers: poppies, bluebells, daffodils. Each one was the reborn spirit of some mercenary or smuggler that had made the mistake of fighting against her and her companions. The sun would shine through the surrounding trees and a light wind would make the petals bob like they were dancing. It was strangely comforting in her ramshackle house with its persistent leak and peeling paint.

**Isabella**

The excitement was addicting. Combat was her second favorite activity and second greatest skill. The feel of the wind whipping through her hair as she turned to parry a blade, the heavy drum of her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she battled were some of the only things that made her feel truly alive. That other people had to die was an unfortunate fact of life. It was what it was. As long as there were people, those people would lie and steal and kill. It didn't made no difference that she did it too. Every time she had to remind herself of this, she'd drink whatever she could get her hands on until she forget everything else.

**Sebastian**

He remembered them all. He knew each and every one of them. He knew their names if they had been given, remembered the words that rode on their last breaths. Each night he prayed for them, and he had lit each one of them a candle at the feet of Andraste's golden likeness. He wished it could have been another way, but he understood that even the divine prophet herself had born a weapon and the heavy weight that went with it. He took solace in idea that the light of the Maker shone through him to destroy the evil infesting his adopted home.

**Fenris**

It had always been a part of his life, as natural as taking a step, less foreign than sleeping in a bed. Thousands had literally died by his hand, their fragile hearts crushed beneath his fingers, and he only remembered the Fog Warriors with regret. The rest were faceless, nameless enemies, as important to him as chamberpots, things he regarded only in his periphery. He never really considered feeling remorse except to think on how unnatural his lack of it was. Yet another piece of his humanity that had been stripped away by magic. It made his ever-present hatred bubble up like bile at the back of his throat.

**Hawke**

Sometimes she would stare at the roaring fire in her bedroom for hours and not see it. She would go somewhere far away and try to reconcile who she was with what she did. When the flames withered to embers, she'd stand abruptly, shake off the melancholy, and pretend she'd succeeded.

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><p>This piece is definitely a lot different than my usual fare. Please let me know your thoughts.<p> 


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